


clear as the ice (melting in my glass)

by twistedingenue



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Happy Sex, Shameless Smut, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 08:50:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1934547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedingenue/pseuds/twistedingenue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I am not built for summer,” Darcy says, flopping gracelessly into a deck chair and adjusts it so that she’s almost lying down, “Not a hot, humid and sticky mess of one.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	clear as the ice (melting in my glass)

**Author's Note:**

> big thanks to sufferhopegracelessheart for the speedy beta. Anything remaining is all on me.
> 
> I asked for smutty prompts last week, and this is in response to thewriterchicks "Prompt! Darcy/Clint: "it's too damned hot for clothes."
> 
> You can always find me at [ my tumblr](http://twistedingenue.tumblr.com)

“I am not built for summer,” Darcy says, flopping gracelessly into a deck chair and adjusts it so that she’s almost lying down, “Not a hot, humid and sticky mess of one.”

“Didn’t you go to school in Virginia?” Clint points out, his finger circling the rim of his glass of water, “Didn’t you go to New Mexico with Jane?”

“It was a dry heat. Also, I was in neither of those places during the summer. Put me in Antarctica for the summer, and I’d be happy.” Darcy straight out bitches and moans, it’s hot, she’s sweating and they are outside. Because for some godawful reason, the air conditioner is a piece of equipment that mystifies the maintenance staff of the hotel they are hiding out in. It’s nice outside, next to a covered pool with a chemical imbalance that is preventing Darcy from being able to at least relieve some of her torture.

“No you wouldn’t,” Clint says, “It’s winter there. Trust me when I say, Antarctic winter sucks.”

“Spent time there?” she asks, curious. Clint talks a lot but doesn’t always say very much. Darcy thinks he gets results by being the spy that never shuts up, so you just give him the information to make him go away.

Clint misses the beat that he should have answered in, then laughs, “I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you,” and he leans down to wet his fingers in his glass and flicks the droplets at her. He sings a little, “Rain drops keep falling on your head…”

The little droplets evaporate on her skin but they feel good, tiny specks of relief, even if it comes with Clint mocking her. Okay, especially if it comes with Clint mocking her. This little trip to the back end of no where has been nice, broken AC not included. Clint’s an ass, but an endearing one and he flirted with her through a half dozen states, and they made out in at least three.

Clint kisses like a good breeze, refreshing and transient. She’s not sure how they really started, and it’s always over a little too quick, but it makes the stress of being uprooted and hidden away after their little team was identified as a top tier target a little more manageable. There’s a certain playfulness that’s borne out when you are kissing out of a mutual attraction but mostly boredom, that doesn’t have the heat of a summer romance. Nothing you’d sing about on the bleachers or anything, but it seems to suit these long, lazy days.

If only it wasn’t so fucking hot. Darcy’s tank top is already sticking to her skin with sweat and she’s going to have to weigh her options here about this.

“You are a laugh riot,” she says and picks at the hem of her shirt. This really shouldn’t even be something to worry about. If the pool was open, she’d be wearing an awful lot less. But there’s something vulnerable about taking off your shirt when it’s your bra (and not even a particularly pretty one) and not your swimsuit. It’s different, with entirely different connotations in her mind. “Don’t mind me, it’s too hot for clothes.” she says lamely, and pulls the tank up over her head.

“Huh,” Clint says, trying not to look at the obvious and failing, “a bra looks weird around a pool.”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking.” Darcy smiles and leans back in the chair, closing her eyes against the sun. It’s a good minute of quiet before she hears the scrape of metal against the concrete deck, and looks through her lashes to see Clint, drink in one hand and dragging his chair closer to her with the other. “How you doing there?”

“You look hot,” he says cheekily, “mind if I help cool you off?”

“What, are you going to block the sun for me?”

“I was more thinking something like this,” he takes a half melted ice cube from his glass between his fingers. He holds it up to her, his eyes glancing up to hold her attention, and little drops run down the side of his tanned skin. Darcy’s breath picks up, her ribs expanding with little hitch, tracking Clint’s slow and telegraphed motions.

The ice is blissfully cold when it makes contact with her overheating skin, and Clint drags it down her neck and over her collarbone before he kisses her. He leaves space for her when their lips meet, like he’s waiting for her to decide what she really wants. What she wants is more of the coolness of his mouth from the ice water he’s been drinking, wants to share her body heat.

The ice melts on her skin, and the water slides down the valley between her breasts. Darcy hadn’t brought any of her pretty bras, just the workhorses, and for a moment she wishes she had a little bit of lace there, just enough to cover, conceal, and entice. But maybe plain cotton and everything held within it works just as well .Clint shifts his position, now kneeling on the concrete beside her, and just when she thinks he’s going to loom over her, he doesn’t. His tongue traces the path of the droplets until he catches up to the small pool before they trickle down her cleavage, and he laps it up and presses his lips to the spot.

“Oh shit, Clint, we’re outside.” Darcy breathes as much as she talks, as Clint starts to get handsy with her.

“And we are practically the only people at the motel, and it’s the middle of the day, everyone who isn’t hiding from HYDRA is off being a tourist,” Clint says, laying his cheek against the swell of her chest, and his whatever-o'clock shadow is right between a tickle and a burn. He rests a hand on her thigh, just where her shorts end, and he teases a finger underneath the fabric.

Darcy isn’t an idiot. She knows this is where those kisses have been leading to, and she’s not opposed to the continuation of the logic. Just the setting. She can hear cars from the street, though, and it makes her uncomfortable. “Clint,” she says in a moan that is a little more like a whine, “Not here,” he continues to nuzzle and smirk right up at her, “There are condoms in my bag upstairs.”

“Aren’t you being forward?” And yet, it’s Clint that jumps to his feet with economical grace and a slide in his hips. He shouldn’t bite his lips like that, it does things to Darcy, and makes Clint look far younger than he is.

“Do you have a problem with that?” Darcy takes his outstretched hand and lets him pull her up into a kiss that finally heats her up in a way she prefers to the sun.

“I like forward,” he says low in his throat and into her mouth, “It’s probably one of my defining traits.”

Darcy breaks away after a few moments of letting Clint know just how forward she can be outside in broad daylight to put back on her tank top. They have to cross the lobby to get to the elevator. They have to cross the lobby to the elevator without Darcy tripping over herself or looking like she knows that she’s going to get laid.

No one is probably watching them, but wow, Darcy feels like it’s so obvious, that by the time she gets to the elevator she pretty much has to turn to Clint and kiss him. And maybe jump up a little. And maybe Clint gets the brilliant idea to lift her up onto the bar and this is far more like it. This isn’t making out to pass the time anymore, and something inside her gut is going to explode with furious want and desire if she doesn’t get a hand on some bare skin soon.

The elevator trip is just too short and far too long all the same, and she has to school her face to stillness to keep from giggling down the hallway to their room and their hopefully redundant double beds.

Clint fumbles with the keycard, puts it in the wrong way, too quick and then too slow.

“I hope that’s not a sign for what happens next,” Darcy can’t help it, and she does giggle, loud and unstoppable.

“Sweetheart, this is all you.”

“All it takes for you to miss your mark is a little bit of action? I think that means you need to get laid more often, desensitize yourself to it.” Darcy teases, her smile contagious.

Clint picks up on her smile, and oh, he looks so good when his laughter is light rather than sarcastic and defensive, “You volunteering?” He gets it right and opens the door, almost manhandles her through the door. It’s not a fancy sort of room, because it isn’t a fancy sort of hotel. It’s about a step above the aging motels that dotted the highways as Clint found just the right back end of nowhere to hide out while the rest of the Avengers took care of business. It’s clean, it’s efficient, there’s at least two fast food chains nearby, but outside of that, the amenities ended at the coffee maker.

But Darcy does not give a shit, because Clint seems to have the ability to kiss and maneuver around without stopping, all while shedding clothes. She knows they must have had to break away to get their shirts off, but she honestly can’t remember. Clint’s got a mouth that doesn’t ever stop and a tongue that sweeps and searches. She presses both hands to his chest and pushes him away for a moment, and he whines and looks a little hurt at the loss of proximity. “My bag,” Darcy says walking away from him towards the set of drawers, highly aware that she’s all but down to underwear and taking advantage of each step. Darcy’s a better listener than most give her credit for, but his sigh when she bends over to open the drawer and pull out the condom packet from an inside pocket is likely audible to anyone within a mile.

“You got lube hidden in there too?” He’s a man after her own heart; he gets right to the point of things.

Darcy shrugs, “No,” it’s not like she was expecting to a) have an impromptu road trip with just her purse, toothbrush and a change of clothes and b) develop a thing for and with the guy taking her on said impromptu road trip. She’s pretty lucky that a condom has always been a standard item in her purse.

“We can make do,” Clint says, sitting back on one of the beds, bouncing a little. He reaches out for her, and Darcy has enough of the teasing back and forth, walks back with the little packet in her hands. Clint takes it from her and puts it down on the bed beside him, before drawing Darcy in by her hips, hooking his thumbs under the thin fabric and slowly inches them down. His mouth grazes over the curves of her stomach, the dip underneath her ribs and the rise of her breasts as she steps out of her panties and unhooks her bra behind her back..

There’s a rush of air, and she yelps in delight when her back hits the bed, feet dangling off the side, and she props herself up on her elbows. Clint is a fucking delight to look at, what with the muscles everywhere, and she wants to touch the lines leading to his dick very soon. Her fingers itch with that want, but Clint gets down on his knees in front of her, his hands under her ass, urging her to tilt up a little. He’s looking at her so closely and with such appreciation, like he’s some kind of pussy whisperer, that Darcy squirms in his hands.

“Hey, I haven’t even gotten started yet!” he balks, and shit, just his breath against her clit is enough to get her going.

“Well, can you?” Darcy snorts, “I want to see if you live up to your hype.” And he gets his mouth on her, and five seconds in Darcy starts concede that he may not be all bluster. “Shit, Clint,” she laughs and squirms some more. Fucking pussy whisperer.

If Clint responds, it’s completely muffled. Darcy gets weak in her elbows and collapses back on the bed, closes her eyes and just lets the rest of the world narrow to this room, this bed, and this man. Clint’s fingers press into her skin and then press into her. He’s too far down for her to really get a hold on any part of him, just the soft touch of the ends of his hair, and she ends up running her fingers through her own hair just to keep from babbling incoherently.

“Keep talking, babe,” Clint encourages, and his fingers do something inside of her, they crook and they stroke, and it’s driving her almost outside of her skin. Clint may just be right when he says that he never misses. “Just keep going.” 

Darcy does, and doesn’t stop herself at all, anything she’s thinking just comes out and she just keeps going until the heat within her swells and breaks and her thighs honest to god shake. Like any good thing, she lets it go a little too long and she has to pull her legs up towards her stomach and fold them over to the side. A few seconds more, and Clint joins her on the bed, and Darcy has to resist holding out her hands in a gimme motion because up close like this, with a light sheen of sweat and lips wet and slightly swollen, Clint’s got more charm than any one person has a right to have.

And by charm, Darcy really means that he’s hot and hey, she’s shallow, she freely admits that. That Clint’s a good guy and makes her laugh on long road trips and has generally tried to make this whole being hunted thing less scary than it is, that kind of won her over already. She’s pretty well sold on Clint Barton.

Up close, Clint is gorgeous but also terribly broken. He’s a mess of fading bruises, minor cuts and scratches. Everything is a few days old and nothing looks terribly serious, but she runs her hands over all she can reach.

He doesn’t look young when she takes her first past over his cock, which looks like the rest of him, fine-tuned and ready to go, he just looks relieved. Like sex took away a burden from his shoulders. Darcy won’t ask anything as cliched as what are you thinking, because she won’t get a straight answer, but he’s giving in to the moment too. She takes another pass around his chest, and they both kiss and taste each others skin, before stroking his dick with a little more earnest.

“I could take care of this for you,” Darcy says.

“Oh could you?” Clint’s mouth is at her ear, a sweet rumble of levity, “That would be really nice of you.”

Darcy reaches for the condom packet, peels it off of Clint’s thigh, can’t remember when she last laughed this much during sex, because she really can’t stop and doesn’t want to. She taps his nose with the packet, “Lay down,” and opens it while Clint scrambles on the bed, and arranges pillows behind his back. “Seriously? You comfortable there?”

“I want to get a — oh damn —“ Darcy slides the condom down his cock, “good view.”

“Oh god, shut up and let me ride your dick.”

Clint tries to make some sort of smartass comment, but either holds it back or momentarily forgets how to make words as she slides down his cock, taking him in a smooth swift movement. Darcy stills, breathes in the gentle stretch and fullness before she starts testing the waters, rocking back and forth.

Darcy likes being on top, because she likes watching faces and she likes have all that skin in front of her, ready and willing to be touched. She picks up her speed, the complexity of how her hips move. Clint holds her hands in his, and Darcy slips out of his grip and takes him by the wrist to guide them to her body, her breasts. Clint doesn’t grab and squeeze, but holds and rubs his thumb against her nipples. Slick and wet, Darcy fucking glides on his cock, and she bounces in time. And every so often, he presses and kneads and it’s an electric current down to her cunt.

“Do you think you can come again?” Clint asks, haggard and raspy, one hand coming down to idly stroke her clit, just waiting for her answer.

“Sometimes,” It’s hit or miss. Darcy always wants a hit, but sometimes it’s too much sensation to be any fun.

Clint takes it as a challenge and keeps his touches light and in time to the rhythm that Darcy’s established. Clint moves his thumb to the side, indirect pressure, and he plays right at that edge between not enough and far too much. Darcy stops paying attention to what she’s doing, letting the moment overtake her, watching Clint as his face clearly contorts with what she’s doing to him.

It’s all smiles and half-started laughs that end in moans, and then everything shifts, and he goes still and quiet. All at peace and rest as he comes, and it’s enough of an oddity that Darcy follows suit almost at once. Just widens her eyes and her mouth, and pulls Clint’s hand away.

“Shit,” she says, catching her breath. Clint touches her hair fondly, as if he’s been waiting all this time to do so. “We should do that more often.” She rolls off his dick and lays down beside Clint.

“Yeah, we should,” Clint says, kissing her gently before rolling away to deal with the condom. He stops about three steps away from the bed, “Wait, did you call me the pussy whisperer?”

“Oh my god, shut up,” Darcy throws a pillow at his head and congratulates herself when she doesn’t miss.


End file.
